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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chap. 4
Posted By: Azrael<tondorf@bc.edu>
Date: 30 August 2005, 4:11 am
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Minutemen: Cronin Protocol Chapter Four
ONI Signal Intelligence Center
United North American Protectorate
Midway through Covenant invasion of Earth
Late Morning
Ethereal gray smoke wafted toward the pitch-black ceiling in a curling, sensuous trail of odor and transparency. As it continued its dissipation into the already hazy recycled air of the office, the cigarette smoke was shoved aside by an exhaled breath of the addicting tobacco. The muted electric reds and greens in the background briefly took on the amorphous nature of the smoke as Commander Thomas Young felt his nerves begin to settle once more. It was weakness, he knew, but even in these trying times of war he allowed a moment of weakness. He reminded himself of that fact once more for good measure. In his particular position, he identified with the smoke. He wished to become one with its fleeting, nearly invisible form. He pushed the thoughts from his mind just as quickly as he withdrew the burning cigarette from his lips.
Thomas Young was not patient, and he was certainly not forgiving. He stamped out the tobacco and reviewed the new wrinkle in his plan yet again. He had been completely certain that the evacuated city of Boston had been just that, evacuated, but the current situation did not seem to suggest that was true. A team of Marines had gone into the city to support a fire team that did not exist on any UNSC database, and that fictional fire team did not belong to his ONI, either. Boston now held two things that were making his assignment a living Hell: civilians and Covenant. The Covenant were easy enough to deal with. A large nuclear bomb courtesy of the late Admiral Matthew Cronin would wipe the city clean, but the presence of civilians, especially civilians acting in a proficient military capacity, worried him.
Young had wrestled with similar issues before, and he had still chosen to push the button, yet a voice in his head—instinct, intuition, whatever it was he wanted to call it—told him this was different. If those civilians had been in the city since the evacuation, then they had nearly unrestricted access to any and all installations in the city, including…did the damn thing even exist? If it does, I'm a hero. If it doesn't, I'm a murderer. Thomas racked his sturdy and well-trained mind, and found himself surprised as his vision blurred with the strain. The ONI Commander had a sudden moment of panic as he tried to convince himself that these moments of limitation were fabrications of his mind, just another meaningless piece of subterfuge he himself was creating.
As Thomas often did when he felt a problem getting too complicated, he fell back on the simplest indications of right and wrong: hard numbers and simple calculations. With a wave of his weathered hand, a series of holograms appeared in air, scrolled by his bloodshot, flashing gray eyes. The numbers seemed to go by too fast, the data accumulating far too suddenly than he could comprehend. This does not happen to ONI Commanders! This won't fucking happen to me! In a sudden burst of uncharacteristic rage, he swept his arm violently across his desk, wiping it clean of anything not bolted down. What the hell is wrong with you, Commander? He berated himself as he struggled to regain control. He was losing focus and dangerously close to losing his hold on a mission that would undoubtedly change the course of the war. How dare you, Thomas. This is bigger than yourself.
Evacuated city of Boston
Late morning
Bright blue eyes blinked twice in the late morning sun behind the cold metal and glass of an Oracle scope. A brisk autumn wind whistled through the concealed location, causing a brief shiver to warm the rest of the eyes' body. The precise instrument of observation sat perched above a coil of black climbing rope as its owner scrutinized the position below it, a brief curse word emanating from his lips in near-silent exultation. Hundreds of yards away from him, Grunts sat in a circle and wandered about aimlessly. Two Shade turrets pointed at the dying grass of a University's quad, in obvious need of repair. Oddly domed, tent-like structures squatted in neat rows, their Elite occupiers growling from within. The entire scene suggested the enemy was completely sure of their security, which could not have placed them in greater peril. The small Covenant encampment was too enticing for Staff Sergeant Ron Parsons to pass up.
The snipers' position was difficult to reach indeed, and Parsons gave thanks that the large, red letters that read "Hyatt," along the side of the hotel had not been completely destroyed. Otherwise, they would have never gained their magnificent view of the town of Cambridge, Massachusetts. From the towering position high above the Charles River, Ron barely moved his scope to fully take in the brain trust of the United North American Protectorate. Cambridge was home to both Harvard University and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, the alma mater of Daniel Shaw, co-creator of the Slipspace translight engines the UNSC was putting to use. Those facts, and the rich histories of both storied institutions, were now nothing more than print and whispers; university traditions had evaporated with the ivy walls as soon as the Covenant landed, and the end was still not in sight. The Staff Sergeant smiled to himself as he sighted the encampment, knowing in a few seconds his spotter, still technically a student of Harvard, would realize what was going on. Ron smiled in satisfaction as his partner synced with Parsons' line of sight and uttered a strong curse word.
"Oh no way," Sergeant Tim McManus breathed. "We are not about to do what I know you're planning on doing."
"Do you see a better target at this point, McManus?"
The buzzed, brown haired sniper took a mental picture of the sight hundreds of yards away. The Covenant had guessed that the high walls, gates, and bombed-out buildings surrounding Harvard Yard would be ample protection from attack. Indeed, the wide open space was ideal for temporary encampment, and taking the Yard by ground force would have been nothing short of insane. But Parsons didn't care about re-taking the Yard. He was only thinking of confusion and sudden attack. No warning, no hesitation. No mercy. The ensuing confusion would divert most of the Covenant forces to Harvard, thus taking the pressure of their Captain, who was performing a rescue operation near Boston Harbor.
Ron stayed silent within his thoughts until his partner made a brief count and assessment. "Two patrols of Grunts, three plasma mortars, two shade plasma turrets under construction, and what looks to be a clutch of Elite tents or living quarters." McManus sighed in resignation. Another home bombed for our survival. How the hell are we gonna live in this city if we ever actually win this war? "No, Ron," he said, "I don't see a better target."
"Then it's decided," the sniper said behind the powerful telescope. "We paint the target and mortar strike your alma mater."
Tim chambered the first round of his S2-AM sniper rifle and pulled out his field radio. "I really wish you weren't enjoying this."
Parsons shrugged and glanced at McManus. "Whatever takes the focus off the Captain."
"That wasn't a 'No.'"
Captain Jack O'Shea found himself tightening the straps of his helmet after the unforgiving metal began to bump roughly against his head. The Lynx transport vehicle was having a hard time with the rough urban terrain, and the occupants were feeling every jolt along the way. The Captain realized after a few short minutes that two years out of a proper vehicle had made him intolerant of the bumps and jostles that urban military transport created even in the most normal of combat patrols. And the fact that the Lynx was faster, but also heavier, than the lead and support Warthogs, made the jaunt to the harbor all the more uncomfortable.
"Coming up on the docks in two minutes," Private First Class Russ Chevelle called over the COM.
"Lima-one copies," O'Shea replied, glancing at his city scans, the holographic maps giving him an accurate view of the route ahead. The Captain squinted into the distance, knowing full well that machines could fail him and his men at any moment. He concentrated on quickly refocusing his attention on the devastated city landscape that was passing by so quickly. In an instant, Jack knew, a pair of Hunters could appear and end his mission prematurely, as well as leaving a weary, hard working wife with nothing but an empty train car. Jack pushed those thoughts from his mind as fast as he could. The blurs of bent and broken street signs and advertisements for trivial products were all that consumed his attention now. Every shadow was a threat, every misshapen piece of rubble was a possible Covenant mine, and every second not back in the safety of their camp was a death wish. The towering city of Boston could not have been more threatening.
After two minutes' time, the shadows, howling winds, and groaning ruins of the former high-rise office buildings dropped away, revealing nothing but toppled warehouses, abandoned fueling stations, and obliterated docks, their wooden planks breaching the Atlantic ocean in jagged spikes. It was absolutely glorious. A brisk wind was blowing in from off shore, tingling O'Shea's nostrils with salty air. The day's sunlight, absent from the South Station camp and all but banished from Boston's inner city, overwhelmed every militiaman, even drawing raised eyebrows from the most seasoned veterans in the team. In the bright daylight, Jack was struck with the awesome majesty of the ocean, even as he realized how easily the small convoy would be able to be seen from the city. They were inviting the Covenant to follow them, but he had little choice. With any luck, his Minutemen would be able to create a diversion.
Even among the bumps and jostling of the vehicle, the Captain managed to find his throat mike. He opened the COM with a chirp.
"Recon, status."
The COM crackled with static for an instant. "This is Staff Sergeant Parsons. We are eyes-on Covenant encampment within the old Harvard Yard. Estimate position is platoon-sized with anti-infantry stationary guns. Request permission to mortar."
"Permission granted, recon. Relay coordinates and fire at will."
Fear was a powerful tool. Those who were not able to harness its power often found themselves paralyzed by it, unable to react to situations and dangers that placed their very lives in jeopardy. Ten refugees had done just that, and had paid the price of their inaction with their liberty. They were now prisoners of two hardened Orbital Drop Shock Troopers.
Organizing the refugees had been easy. In less than two minutes, both Special Operations soldiers had bound the civilians in improvised restraints made of the migrants' own clothing. All ten of the worn down travelers were now on their knees, hands behind their backs, facing out in a circle. Their position made widespread communication nearly impossible, and all potential troublemakers could be easily identified by the minimum number of guards. But the ODSTs weren't interested in the troublemakers; they wanted to find and question the leader.
The Staff Sergeant pointed at one woman, a long dark scar running along the left side of her face. Of the entire group, she had been the only one to stand her ground when the soldiers had entered the warehouse with a powerful flashbang, making the refugees fall to the floor nearly blubbering in fear. She had simply stared right at the troopers as they forced her to her knees and restrained her. She was courageous and brave, the Staff Sergeant noted. She was an early suspect as the brains of the operation. "You," He said forcefully, his voice amplified and grave as it boomed out of his helmet, "you lead this group?"
The woman nodded, eyes on the floor, curly red hair beginning to obscure her face. "I do."
Bingo. Tell me what I want to know. "How long have you been in this city?"
The voice was quiet, hardly above a whisper. The woman sounded defeated. "We just arrived."
"Where did you come from?"
"Many places."
The ODST took a menacing step forward, his two footfalls echoing in malice as the sounds died in the expanse of the warehouse. The woman still stared resolutely at the ground as the towering soldier looked down on her. His voice could have frozen fire. "I want a better answer."
The refugee leader finally raised her head to look her captor in the faceshield. With a short, stubborn exhalation of breath a few red strands puffed up and away from the refugee leader's eyes. The green eyes flashed with anger, but they only met their own reflection in the trooper's faceshield. "Most of us come from Lexington, others were found along the way."
The Staff Sergeant nodded, confident the woman was telling the truth. But even though it was the truth, it did not explain the reason for their presence. He pressed further.
"Why come to Boston? This is an evacuated, Covenant-occupied city. Why risk your lives to come here?"
Before the red-haired leader could reply a small, angry voice behind her spoke up. "The Minutemen."
Both troopers wheeled on the voice. Apparently the refugees did not prefer to see their leader questioned. "The who?"
"Shut the fuck up, Mike!" Another voice chided, but it was too late. The Staff Sergeant had crossed the distance and taken the man out from the circle, placing him alone in the middle of the warehouse. The refugees could only look on as their comrade was placed ten feet from them. It was a striking picture: a tattered and worn traveler, restrained by his own clothes, kneeling, his head hanging low in front of an immensely powerful and intimidating soldier dressed entirely in blacks and grays. The sunlight reflecting off the sea entered the warehouse and backlit the two figures as a second interrogation commenced.
"Who are the Minutemen?"
The refugee, Mike, slowly raised his head and silently stared up at the bigger soldier in defiance. The stare was returned with the back of an armored glove, spraying a fine mist of blood across the floor as the refugee's face snapped to the left. The body dropped clumsily to the floor, leaving Mike groaning in pain and spitting out several teeth. Several refugees jerked forward as if to rush the interrogator, only to be deterred by the Lance Corporal leveling his Battle Rifle in their direction and shaking his head slowly. The other black-clad warrior proceeded to pick up the civilian, blood trickling from his mouth.
"You delay my mission any longer and I'll leave you hanging from a light pole for the Jackals to play with. Now who are the Minutemen, and where do I find them?"
Before the man could manage a reply, sensors in both soldiers' helmets sounded a warning tone. Motion trackers had picked up a signal outside the warehouse. The Staff Sergeant risked a glance at his subordinate.
"Fast-moving contacts, vehicles, three of them." The Lance Corporal identified, moving quickly for the large steel doors. The lower-ranked ODST peeked his head around a corner for an instant before reporting. "Two Warthogs and a…wow, a Lynx. Two standard 'Hog chain guns, one twenty mike-mike autocannon. They can pin us down pretty easy, Sergeant." The Lance Corporal closed the large doors as quickly and as silently as possible, activating his light amplification as he did so. Only a thin sliver of yellow light now streaked across the wide warehouse floor.
The Sergeant almost chuckled as he saw the bloody refugee's face light up with hope. "Took them longer than a minute," he noted coldly as he checked his ammunition counter. The ranking soldier keyed his silent communications link within his helmet. "If they're after these refugees, let's give 'em their refugees."
The Lance Corporal nodded as he seized a young man by his upper arm, hoisting him off the ground. The ODST's right hand ripped open a Velcro pocket and withdrew a roll of heavy-duty tape as he tossed the traveler back to the ground.
The three drab gray all-terrain vehicles zipped past salt-encrusted structures, each buildings' façade a whitish gray from two years of brine and neglect. A faint odor of salt, steel, and squandered fish entered the nostrils of each militaman as they sped by the dockyards; their eyes constantly moving, constantly scanning a region that afforded them little room to maneuver. They were out in broad daylight with the sea to their right. The Minutemen realized this rescue mission did not allow for optimal evasion tactics, causing each soldier to hear a small voice speaking nagging worries into their minds. The Sun continued its inexorable journey through the sky, reflecting brightly off the structures and hindering the Minutemen's vision into the warehouses. O'Shea swore to himself under his breath.
"Last camera readings had them in this warehouse cluster, sir," the surveillance technician informed him via COM. The holographic map in front of Jack now displayed a bright green dot on the wire mesh building displays. "They'll probably give off a good heat signature."
"Not at this time of day," Jack said, his eyes boring holes in the three warehouses that stood squat, side by side. "Heat from the sun will radiate off those metal walls; fuck up our sensors."
"So we do it the old fashioned way," Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds noted from behind the Lynx's autocannon. "Great."
The line of militia cars broke formation fifty meters from the dockside structures. The lead Warthog skid to a fishtailed stop in front of the first warehouse as its gunner swiveled precisely to cover the doorway. Once the vehicle came to a stop the passenger and driver leaped out of their seats, Battle Rifle and M90 Shotgun out and sighted into the darkness. The approach on foot took three seconds and they waited an additional second to stack on the left corner of the doorway. With a nod, both Minutemen pivoted to the left and switched on their tactical flashlights. The gunner squinted into the empty black space as he prepared to let lead fly into whatever might try to get the jump on his comrades. He saw none, and two seconds later he heard confirmation via COM.
"This is Whiskey-one, Chevelle reporting. Structure one clear."
"Roger, Chevelle," O'Shea acknowledged. "This is Lima-one. Coming up on structure two. Come to us and cover our ass."
"Huah," Russ replied, and shifted his weight to the left. The standing platform responded to the change in weight and turned counter-clockwise from the warehouse. The Private First Class now faced the path from which he came and wondered how long it would take the aliens to arrive. He prayed for a few extra minutes, but he knew full well that when it came to the Covenant, God never liked answering his prayers. The young volunteer squinted from behind weathered sunglasses and strained to see a few meters farther. "C'mon, c'mon," he whispered into the wind.
The Harvard football stadium, or what was left of it, had been constructed in a Coliseum design; its open bowl shape was framed by massive stone arches that, while not completely imposing, towered over the surrounding athletic facilities. While Harvard Stadium has drawn comparisons to the Roman Coliseum, it now bore more of a resemblance to the ancient Circus Maximus, due to an entire section of the wall that had been completely decimated in the Boston National Guard's last stand. Having been defeated all over the city and realizing all avenues of retreat and escape had been effectively cut off, the head of the National Guard had mustered all his forces for one final trap of the Covenant forces. After drawing the legions of alien invaders to the structure, the General had blown out the entire east end zone of the stadium, launching debris and Covenant bodies as far as the Charles River. Sadly, it had not been enough. The wave of escaping troops met only the inexorable tidal wave of Covenant reinforcements, the Grunt troops hurling themselves at the humans in droves. Not a single human survived, but their massacre had not been in vain.
The resulting carnage had been tremendous, the ground soaked to the bedrock in human and Covenant blood, the drab gray stone of the enormous stadium stained as a witness to slaughter, the unimaginable terror of war. Even the bloodthirsty Covenant had refrained from attempting to clean, or even burn, the site. The Minutemen had taken full advantage. Every place the Covenant refused to tread the Boston militia made their sanctuary. Now the dismal grass that had once been brown, dry, and crackling at best was replaced by sea of bleached white skeletons of every species. The vultures themselves had tired of this place. The Minutemen Mortar Team had not.
The Minutemen Mortar Team had bragged on numerous occasions that, given they were within the maximum distance of their equipment, they were the only division of the militia that could actually effectively function within sixty seconds. On the fifty-yard line of the stadium, a single human skeleton lay in a grotesque pose as if it was a discarded puppet, its puppeteer bored and dismissive. The mass of bones shuddered for a moment, then rose up slightly from the ground. Finally the heap of white lifted into the air and slid down a short slide, the hatch built into the ground having moved the corpse aside. Gloved hands then appeared in the daylight, followed by an urban-camouflaged body and five escorts. Having been given the coordinates ahead of time, the team wasted none of it as they prepared two base plates, two firing tubes, two D&E mechanisms, and several shells each. The leader, Lance Corporal Brian Kellogg, withdrew his data pad and mirrored sunglasses from his tactical vest. He inspected both tubes for a brief second and placed his hand to his forehead to shield the sun, despite the sunglasses. He wore the aviator-style eyewear for effect, giving him a cool and collected feeling. Other Minutemen thought he looked like a jackass.
Kellogg stared into the sunny beyond, his view unobstructed due to the absence of an eastern wall. "Recon, this is Mortar team-alpha. We are aboveground."
"Mortar-alpha, this is recon." the hushed reply came. "Adjust fire, over."
Kellogg nodded in reply and briefly looked over the preparations. Small stacks of artillery shells waited to be loaded onto cannon tubes, the ammunition men waiting in expectation to hand their rounds to the assistant gunners, who would in turn fire the weapons. Each man was lightly armed and even less armored, trusting their survival to speedy infiltration and exfiltration. "Recon, Mortar team-alpha. Adjust fire out."
"Grid 339-179, enemy platoon in the Yard, over."
Kellogg repeated the sniper's words and was met with a hasty, "Fire when ready, over." I am ready, the young man from Braintree, Massachusetts thought. I'm ready to rain down hell on those fucking bastards, get away before they know where it came from, and tell the story over beers in two hours. Who says militia life ain't fun? The Lance Corporal watched as each assistant gunner stood poised with the high explosive round in their hands over the tubes. Brian smiled out the corner of his mouth and made a chopping motion toward the University. In a slight Boston accent, the still air was broken with his single word.
"Fiah."
Jack O'Shea, like any good soldier, had a healthy sense of fear. He had never been one of the green rookies who always complained about having a bad feeling, but he knew how to manage experience and instinct. As the veteran commander of the Minutemen approached the salt encrusted façade of structure-two, both Jack's experience and instinct were telling him that he had much to fear. He knew little of the interior and knew less about the intentions of the refugees he was coming to "rescue." The fact that Covenant were hot on their heels did not ease the tension of the situation, either. The warehouse doors were slightly ajar, but there was no way the Captain could get a clear look inside.
Directly to his right, Master Gunnery Sergeant Gus Reynolds kept his MA5B Assault Rifle leveled at the door. The rubber-soled combat boots made soft contact with the ground on each separate step, each foot coming down on one edge and then carefully transferring the weight so each stride was silent. The two Minutemen stacked at the edge of the left door, and O'Shea hesitantly peeked in. "No visual," Jack breathed, "I can't see in."
At the conclusion of the Captain's sentence, the faint high pitched tone of a Warthog fusion engine reached the two veterans' ears, causing Reynolds to turn. Whiskey-one had arrived, rolling to a quiet stop near the doors. Both the Lynx's autocannon and the Warthog's chain gun were pointed at the structure in silent, menacing poses, their shiny surfaces glinting in the sunlight. In seconds, the driver and passenger of Whiskey-one deployed and stacked on the other side of the door. The warehouse door had swung in by about a foot, but each militiaman realized they would have to open the door further to gain access, not to mention performing a sweep in the dark. Jack switched on his attached tactical light almost as an afterthought. O'Shea and Whiskey-one's leader exchanged hand signals for a moment, concluding with Jack volunteering to move in first.
In an instant, Jack shouldered the door open by two more feet, creating more precious sunlight as his Battle Rifle scanned the room. Room clearing always got Jack's blood pumping; O'Shea could not think of an assignment more fraught with peril. Without grenades, enemies could hide anywhere; and if the room was big enough they could wait until their heart's content to send O'Shea to his maker. That was why, refugees or not, Jack was not taking this lightly. Boston had dealt with raiders masquerading as refugees before, and with Covenant on their heels, O'Shea did not have time to mess around. The searching beam of light only found large cardboard and steel cargo boxes, each stenciled in white letters and numbers. There was nothing here but huge crates, a corrugated tin roof, a high surrounding catwalk, and—
"Contacts, look like refugees, restrained, center floor." Gus Reynolds announced via COM. Jack now wheeled to his left and faced the center of the warehouse. In the middle of the cavernous, wide-open space, ten refugees were kneeling in circle, bound and gagged by their own clothes and heavy-duty tape. The warehouse doors were now wide open, flooding the floor of the structure with light and making the ten travelers shy away from the brightness, awkwardly attempting to shield themselves with shoulders and bent necks. Others looked to O'Shea and attempted to speak through their tape. Their muffled voices sounded urgent and scared, and their eyes were wide open in fear. Alarms immediately began to ring in Jack's head before he even fully analyzed the situation.
O'Shea had clumsily placed himself directly in the vehicles' fields of fire. If he moved, he put the refugees in peril; refugees that had been deliberately left there in that way. The Minutemen had been trapped, pinned down without a shot being fired. To further add to the imminent danger they were now in, the four Minutemen inside the space jerked their heads up as a steely cold voice commanded from the catwalk above, "Freeze! Drop your weapons!" A second voice shouted the same command from the darkness above and behind them. With his unseen enemies shrouded in darkness, O'Shea could not tell how many threats were in the building.
The voice came again, though this time it seemed to come from a completely different area. "Drop your weapons now or we will fire!"
"Motherfuckers!" A young Minuteman exclaimed.
"Worse," Gus Reynolds replied, as his assault rifle jerked back and forth between splotches of darkness. "Helljumpers."
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